silver is the grip on the helping hand

Hausakljúfr. He would do well to remember that. Astraios Hausakljúfr. It had a better ring to it than the name he was leaving behind. When she spoke of his dagger, of leaving it until after he was freed… he did not know when that would be. He sighed softly, and scowled. He didn’t know what he was expecting, exactly, but he wanted it now. It belonged to him. He had hoped for too much.

The you that leapt atop a reindeer and dug his claws in. Well. Vidarr wouldn’t exactly think he had changed much, presented that way. He could see how the information would benefit her, as the one asking for his freedom. “I trespassed into Heiðinn territory and attempted to steal food.” He’d been half starved at the time. It wasn’t long after his parents had died, and he had felt his strength waning. “I was caught… by Vidarr’s son. We fought… I scarred him.” It had made sense to him at the time. “Vidarr showed up, so I fought him, too. I lost. When I woke up, I… fought him again.” He’d had a lot of pent up rage. His expression was a little wry, and then changed to an angry scowl. “Then he stole my dagger, and made me a thrall.”

"Speech"